EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJune
21, 1999
Fez, Morocco
A Taste
"The people only want to look! They never buy!" The silver salesman reveals
his business woes. "Jewelry is good luck!" He can’t manage the hard-sell.
On his shelves are ornate boxes, earrings, necklaces and table-sized pipes. He’s got
drums and cuff bracelets and some lamps. Hassan drops us off and picks us up moments
later, and leads us away from the shops and past the Turkish bath where men with red legs
sit in towels in the doorway, watching passers by. Hassan leads us into an alley like
every other.
Now we’re standing in a house, with an open middle and more intimate rooms around
the edge. The middle room is a restaurant. Hassan asks, "would you like to have a
Moroccan meal?"
The room is grand and dim. Pink cushions. And carpets. Small dishes are set before us
-- red liquid, brown liquid, watery green liquid. Olives, lentils, white beans, orange
sauce. Cucumbers, tomatoes, mint. Potatoes, beets, carrots, and triangles of flatbread.
"Our specialty is baked pigeon pie." Rich wants to look at the menu, but our
waiter holds back and directs his attention towards me, "Vegetarian for you."
He’s taking instructions from Hassan, who is now in another room sipping tea. The
menu is a set one with the prices high for Moroccan tourists.
The meal is one we could never finish. The food comes and goes. Couscous is sizzling in
its own pot, soft with squash and tubers and pears. Rich dissects an almondy chicken. All
the while, the proprietor and his staff hover behind us, a foot away, surveying the door
and the other foreign couple at the other end of the room.
A group of French tourists enter as we look over a plate of cut melon and coconut
cookies. They’re interested in what they’re going to eat. It’s one
o’clock and they’re anxious to degust. Are they aware that alcohol is often
forbidden in Islamic countries?
The meal is one that would cost pennies on the street. Of course it’s not wise to
buy food from the stalls of the medina – often spoiled or old or not suitably washed
for overly sensitive western stomachs. Nevertheless, a flatbread costs 1Dirham –
about 15 cents. Our Moroccan lunch costs $60.
We’re feeling fine, digesting comfortably, and say goodbye to our savvy guide
Hassan. He takes our cash and hops out of the taxi before we reach our hotel.
